


Flowers in a Waste Ground

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: James Bond [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Attraction, Bar, Boat, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Friendship, Gun references, Houses of Parliament, Humour, London, MI6, Romance, Secrets, Sexual References, Strong Language, Suspicion, Thames, back from a mission, grounded, injuries, martini, references to violence, temporary headquarters, thrown off a case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: “There’s someone scouting around the old place. They appear to be injured, but it’s hard to tellhowmuch with the poor quality footage. As you’re free maybe you wouldn’t mind taking a look 007? It might be one of us. An agent back from a mission perhaps. I’m having difficulty seeing. It might also be a trap. I’m still trying to establish the route they’ve taken to get there and whether they might have spoken to anyone beforehand, but time is of the essence. We don’t knowwhenthey might leave.”“Message received Tanner. I’ll go and check it out now.”“Keep us informed.”“Will do.”A prequel to 'Sole Cover.'
Relationships: James Bond/Reader, James Bond/You, james bond/female reader
Series: James Bond [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964749
Kudos: 46





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> Thank you so much for all your support on 'Sole Cover.' It is much appreciated and means a lot to me. 
> 
> This is a prequel to that story. It is set towards the end of, 'Skyfall,' and before James receives M's [Judi Dench] last gift and the 'Top Secret' file from the new M, Mallory. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.

To say that you are out of the loop seems to be an _understatement_ as you stare at the bombed out MI6 building from the bridge that you are standing on and underneath the threatening sky that is _filled_ with black rain clouds. There is a heavy atmosphere in the air and you wouldn’t be surprised if a storm is about to occur. 

All along, through the weeks of hiding and running, not drowning and being ripped to shreds in shark-infested waters and the treatment-the imprint of fingers upon your neck, a line, which curves around your shoulder to your lower back when you had been whipped and which would be found if anyone peeled your torn red jumper and thin white top from your flesh, your scuffed dark trousers along with all the grime and blood that covers your clothing generally, but the side of your hip in particular from where a bullet had caught you as you’d escaped through the window of the yacht-you’d been heading for the building you can see in front of you. In your darkest moments you’d pictured it in your mind, pure and whole, a shining destination for you to get to and somehow that had managed to keep you going. You’d never pictured the battered wreck that you now see in front of you and you hadn’t _once_ imagined that, during your time away, something _this_ extraordinary would have happened and you’d still be feeling cut off even when you got back home. 

You just stand there for a moment, as if in awe at the sight. Then you drag your barely able to move feet forwards and towards the building. It’s not that you truly _believe_ that there will be anyone there-the explosion looks as if it had happened a while ago as there are no rushing sirens or trace of fires, no smoke emanating from the gaping wound that is now at the heart of the British Intelligence Service and you much less believe that there will be a _sign_ telling you where all the other operatives are-but rather that by going there you might be able to draw attention to yourself, especially in _these_ circumstances and get someone to come to you. It’s not as if you have much _choice_ in any case. You’re spent. You’d used up all your energy just to _get_ here. You get off the bridge and walk back and for in front of the building, hoping that you will be picked up on by the surveillance that you are _sure_ will still be in operation in parts of the area. You walk around until you are _forced_ to come to a stop, your head dizzy and legs about to give way, your back largely to the building. 

You stay like that until you hear the sound of someone approaching you. You spin around, which sees the last of your resources begin to crumble. At the same time lightning flares, followed shortly by a sound that could fill an auditorium. At the hazy sight of a gun, however, you fumble around the waistband of your trousers for the one that you had managed to procure during your initial escape from the yacht. Only to have whoever has found you step forwards, tug your weapon free and throw it away from your reach. Releasing a moan of protest you fling yourself forwards, but they catch you. Your knee makes contact with their groin and a hiss and a bit of a curse escapes them, but they push back against you, before you can do _too_ much damage. Your leg slides down again and that, along with the light pattering of rain that begins to fall, are the last things that you are aware of as you slump against the person that has caught you.

At a later date it might have caused you a small smile to see the look of bewilderment that had then passed over James Bond’s face, before it had been quickly replaced by a frown and a more determined expression, but at the time you are too unconscious to.


	2. Flowers in a Waste Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support!
> 
> I have made some edits to 'Sole Cover,' but the only thing that has really changed is the fact that Reader is a little earlier on in her relationship with both Q and Moneypenny and is not at the point where she'd call them good friends yet. She is definitely on the way to that though and despite this being a prequel I thought it might be helpful for you to bear that in mind here where she will first be meeting the pair of them. :)

When you wake, stiff and aching and still in your ruined clothes, the first thing you see is a frowning and very well-dressed man in front of you in a dark three-piece suit, light blue shirt and dark blue tie who makes you feel _very_ shabby indeed as he stares at you with unmoving blue eyes. “Are we under attack?” is the first thing that he asks you, before you have even had time to pull yourself together or figure out your location. As you try and do the latter you push yourself up with your elbows and realize that you have been placed on an examination table. Your heart skips a beat in panic for a moment, as you believe that your husband’s henchmen have finally got you, but further clues, like medical equipment, a sink and a white partition screen give rise to the idea that you might be in a GP’s room after all and in any case the sight of the bombed out MI6 building fills your mind every time that you blink, so you had certainly got back to London at any rate. The man’s clothing, as well as his question, makes you dispute the theory that he might be a doctor.

“Who are _you?”_ You want to know more about the situation you’re in, before you answer any of his questions. 

“Gareth Mallory,” he says promptly, as he moves a little closer to you, “Though in official channels I’m _M,”_ he lets you know and reaches a smooth hand out towards you. You don’t take it, not feeling particularly _warm_ towards him considering this _other_ change that you now appear to be facing and he withdraws it, tucking his hand back inside of his pocket. “I would say that it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I need to ask you something- _are we under attack?”_ his voice properly emphasizes the question. 

_“No,”_ you croak out, What happened to the _other_ M?” 

“She was killed in duty I’m afraid.” He frowns matter-of-factly.

“I suppose the details of which are confidential?” the pang that you had immediately felt at his words is replaced by a bristling of anger. 

He bows his head. “I’m afraid that I need to ask you some more questions.”

“Fire away,” you act indifferently, as if him not answering what you’d wanted to know had, had no effect on you. 

“Can you remember who you are?” He looks at you with an unblinking interest. 

Your mouth opens, before you close it again in a bit of a scowl. “Before I reveal _anything_ to you that might be confidential or put me in danger I’m going to need you to identify yourself better. I’m sorry, but I hardly know you,” you add at Mallory’s quirked eyebrow. “I can’t go by your word alone.”

His lips become a grim line as he nods at you, before he beckons towards the porthole window, which is on the door. 

Your hackles stand up at the idea that someone has been close by enough to hear you all this time, although you _really_ shouldn’t be surprised about that possibility by now, but your shoulders slump a little in relief when Bill Tanner, MI6’s Chief of Staff, walks in. _He_ at least you know and there is something comforting about the cheaper, two-piece suit that he is wearing along with his stripy blue and white shirt and navy and white tie. 

His eyes take you in quickly and he gives you a sharp little nod, before he looks back at Mallory. _“Sir?”_

“I need you to vouch for me,” Mallory is brief. 

They must have discussed there being possibility of such a scenario _before hand_ because Bill barely delays, before he looks at you. “He’s the new M, F/N.” You scrutinize him for a moment with your lips pursed just in case this is some kind of trap and Bill has been pressurized to say such a thing, but when he holds your eye contact easily and with only the _smallest_ amount of colour upon his face-he has a bit of a thing for you, but would be redder still if he were lying, you know, especially around the ears-you bow your head. 

Mallory thanks Bill for his assistance and gestures that he should leave the room. 

You turn your gaze on the _new_ M. He is already looking at you. “Yes, I remember. My name is F/N L/N, I’m [number of years-old] and a 00 agent,” you tell him.

“Good, then maybe you can tell me _why_ you were left outside the old headquarters today?”

“I wasn’t sir.”

“Are you _quite_ sure about that?”

“Yes sir. I made my way there myself and I only did such a thing because I didn’t know how to get in touch with anyone.”

“You could have _phoned?_ I assume that even if you were _worried_ that things had changed because of the state of the old headquarters that you would still have alternate contact details for Bill, for instance, since the two of you know one another better?”

That sounds like the obvious choice now, but you’d been tired and hadn’t had the energy to search for a phone or to make it back to your apartment in order to use the one you have there. You’d _long_ since lost the Pay-As-You-Go mobile phone that you’d been gifted by Q branch, before you headed out on the operation. “I wasn’t sure it was safe, sir,” you finally settle on, not wanting to tell him that you’re exhausted even though the thing _must_ be obvious to him. “I wanted to cut through the possibility of not having my identity believed and get to reporting my story as quickly as I was able to.” 

He looks at you dubiously for a moment, before he instructs you to tell him about your latest mission and what had happened to lead you back to London.

As soon as you’re done he questions, “Did you give anything away about our operations or anything that you shouldn’t have, before you were able to escape?”

“No sir.”

“Did you come back here in the hopes that we would be able to protect you?” Your eyes narrow. You know that he’s wondering why you hadn’t just evaded both the Service _and_ your criminal hunters at that point. 

“No sir. I came back because I had a job to do and I did not spend all that time undercover and going what I went through to _not_ report back on any of it.”

“The thought of looking over your shoulder _also_ wasn’t a pleasant one no doubt.” You open your mouth. “In any case,” he goes on smoothly, “Maybe it is better that you are grounded for the moment and that you come off this case?”

_“Sir”-_ you begin to protest. 

“That is an official order,” there is a soft warning in his tone that makes you frown at the lack of negotiation it leaves you with. “You should report here for tests tomorrow.” 

“Yes sir,” you say through nearly gritted teeth.

With one last sweeping glance at you he leaves the room. By the time that someone comes to give you medical treatment you are tearing into the packaging of some of the equipment and halfway through treating _yourself,_ furious at being thrown off a case that you have worked so hard on. 

*

Later and once you have had something to eat and drink, as well as a shower and been able to change into different, if _musty_ clothes, from the supply in Lost and Found, your body feels like it has been through _another_ round of bruising and you are in aching need of a little alcohol.

Since you have no clue where you are Bill, accompanied by a couple of security personnel who control the boat [which is the _only_ way to get in and out of what Bill informs you is the new temporary headquarters, though your office and the ones of those you work with are currently at Whitehall] escorts you. Thankfully the storm has broken and a few white clouds have burst through the sky like flowers in a waste ground.

You know that you should know better, but you can’t resist asking Bill, “What happened to _M?”_ whilst you have the opportunity to as you coast along the Thames. You are _friends_ after all.

He doesn’t look to where you’re stood to the left of him, just dead ahead in front of him, as he informs you, “M’s back at”-

“You _know_ which one I mean,” you tell him a little heatedly. “I mean M, fierce, battle-axe, maybe _actually_ on your side M, not the poor interpretation that’s back there.” You toss your head. Your long h/c tresses billow out behind you-you are _really_ in need of a haircut. The curls in them are similar to the waves that are being made by the boat, as it churns through the grey water.

“Funny that, thought you’d get along,” Bill says, completely deadpan. You stick your tongue out at him, finally breaking his façade as his blue eyes turn with a bit of a sparkle on you, before they become more serious again and reminiscent of the day that’s fading around you. Colours start to pull at the white clouds and smudge the entire sky. “Someone wanted revenge on her. 007 was involved. That’s all I can say.” 

“I haven’t met him,” you murmur, wondering what he’s like.

“You _have_ actually,” Bill says with a little surprise in his tone, as if you should already be _aware_ of such a thing. “He was the one who fetched you from the old place,” he informs you. Your eyebrows rise as you take the information in. “Now _he_ is actually someone who you might get along with,” Bill says a smidgen regretfully, as you arrive and the boat comes to be beside the dock.

“The only things I can see myself getting on with tonight are alcohol and my bed,” you inform him, “Thanks Bill.” You wrap your arms around him and peck him on the cheek. You expect him to let go of you and help escort you off the boat, but for a moment he doesn’t let you go. If anything his grip _tightens_ upon your shoulders. You look at him. His face appears divided between keeping its usual half-seriousness and something else.

“I don’t know what they did to you, but you’re all right?” Even as he says such a thing he can’t quite look at you.

You nod and peck at his cheek in further reassurance. “Of course.” As he helps you off the boat there is this frisson of energy between you and you can tell that he doesn’t _believe_ you, but he doesn’t say a word more. He knows that it might take a while, but that eventually you might tell him if you want to.

You blow him a bit of a kiss in further thanks, as the security men who had come with you begin to steer the boat back to the temporary headquarters.

Then you head off to the nearest bar.

*

You’ve only just received your second drink in the half-busy, dusky bar with its background track of people’s chatter and old country music when you feel a presence beside you.

A black woman with curly, dark hair in a grey dress gives her order to the woman that is behind the silver bar. She is thin and athletic and doesn’t look at you until the bar lady’s moved away again. “Eve Moneypenny. We work in the same place.” She holds out her hand.

“F/N L/N. M sent you,” you deduce. You _don’t_ shake her hand.

She turns back to the bar. “I’m his secretary”-she moves the turquoise umbrella that is in the gold cocktail that has just been placed in front of her up a little, before she lets it sink down again-“But that doesn’t mean that I have to tell him everything. _I_ decide what words to say.”

You look at her with an increased amount of respect upon your face, before you cover it up by nodding at the man whose just come into the place and is now stood behind her a little expectantly. He’s got glasses, scruffy, black hair and is wearing a dark coat over a suit and violet tie. Though he’s as skinny as anything he’s somehow out of breath and you guess that his job involves a lot of sitting around and analyzing, as well as standing and that he doesn’t often have to do a lot of running. “Friend of yours?”

Moneypenny’s eyebrows rise, before they drop down again when she’s turned enough to see who you’re referring to. “Q, glad you could make it,” she says.

“Our new Quartermaster?” you deduce.

The man nods. “Nice to meet you.” You shake his hand briefly. “I’m keeping something safe for you. Pop by the lab tomorrow if you want to fetch it.”

_“You_ don’t waste any time,” you comment, encouraged to be a little bolder by Moneypenny’s presence. She snorts. Q looks both a little flushed and annoyed. “Is it my gun?” you ask him in a low voice, trying to keep on his side, but excited by the prospect of it as well.

_“Yes,”_ he growls, apparently still irritated with you, before he looks around.

You vastly ignore the tension that he’s feeling, however, because a dreamy state of euphoria has just come over you. You’re not naïve. You’d _known_ that your gun would have been picked up when you’d dropped it outside the old headquarters and that its probably been analyzed to boot, a copy of the fingerprints of all those who have touched it now stored on the system, but you’ve been through a _lot_ with that weapon in the short time that you’ve had it for and are looking forward to re-claiming it. 

Moneypenny waits for Q to get his drink [‘I don’t suppose they have any Earl Grey around here,’ he’d joked, before he’d ordered something a little more alcoholic] and then leads the pair of you to a corner table that has recently been wiped and where you can see the bar from. Q takes the chair that is on the outside of the table, whilst Moneypenny and you sit a little apart from one another on the fixed seating that is upholstered in peeling black leather that is opposite him.

Moneypenny leads the conversation and as it goes along you find yourself taking a little comfort from their increasingly familiar voices as much as you do from the alcohol. You are also grateful that you are left _mainly_ to your own devices-Moneypenny and Q keep an eye on you in the least intrusive way possible, minimizing the amount they will be able to report back to M, but still technically doing what he’d told them to and giving you what you need at the same time. Though this is mostly Moneypenny’s doing you notice that Q is _also_ respectful to you. 

It is during one of these times, when you are just _listening_ to their voices and lowering your almost empty glass back to the table that you get the sudden feeling that you are being watched. Your shoulders harden and you instantly become more awake and out of the numb, dream-like state that you’d been threatening to fall into. Your eyes flick all around, your head only moving the minimum amount it needs to and finally you catch sight of a man.

He’s not exactly in disguise, but rather hiding in plain sight- _leaning_ against the edge of the bar and looking straight at you. There is something lazy about him, but his impressive physique tells you that he could move quickly enough if he wanted to and that you should _not_ be fooled by him. His short blond hair is close to his head, his skin is pale in the dim light and because of what he’s wearing-a navy shirt with his forearms and collarbone partially exposed, along with a pair of white trousers and dark shoes-it brings out the colour of his blue and bottomless eyes. They even seem to _shimmer_ a little as they look at you.

Its been a _long_ time since you’ve been hit on and though its been a short time since you’ve showered and you are in different clothes from the ones that you’d returned to London in you don’t think that’s the case here. Your hand tightens around your glass. You look back to Moneypenny and Q, but they are absorbed in their conversation. Your eyes dart back to the man. He is still staring at you. He smiles not so subtly in your direction, the corner of his mouth lifting in a bit of a boyish smirk. You frown and stare into your drink for a moment’s concentration, before you drain it and head to the bar.

The man finally turns away from you and you hear him rattling off a drink order, telling the woman behind the bar the _exact_ way that it should be constructed. Moneypenny and Q laugh obliviously behind you. You wait semi-patiently, clearing your throat a little.

“Here, get that down you.” The man pushes the drink towards you once its been placed in front of him. You look at him suspiciously. “Don’t know _what_ you’re missing.” He takes a sip of the drink _himself,_ perhaps to show that he hadn’t secretly asked the bar lady to poison it, before he again pushes it in front of you.

This time you pick up the glass and give the clear liquid a little sniff, before you drink from the opposite side that he had done. He snorts.

“Entertaining 007?” Moneypenny queries, on the way officially no doubt to fetch more drinks for Q and herself, but dropping you a hint at the same time in order to level the playing field. Your eyes widen at her words. Your head jerks upward from your glass to stare at the man who is apparently 007.

_“Trying_ to.” He looks at you a little ruefully, but you feel a little on edge again and you _don’t_ return his half-smile. 

You turn a little away from him, trying to process the information and keeping the glass to yourself and in between your hands. You can _feel_ 007 frowning and looking at you, but though your eyes want to stare back at him defensively you force yourself to _not_ pay him any attention and just think about it all first. Moneypenny orders the drinks and takes them back to the table.

007 goes around the other side of you, blocking you from Moneypenny and Q and a lot of the other drinkers and you swallow at having him _that_ close. His upper arm is almost against yours, his shirt near to rustling against the fabric of your _own_ top and you try and not let the way that his shoulder is looming over yours intimidate you. “You must know my name, but what’s yours?” you ask him. 

“Bond. James Bond.” You shake his hand, your skin tingling with something as you do so. He peers down at you, as if to say that you’re even now, his eyes glinting in the light. 

“And what game are we playing here James Bond?” 

He casts his hands wide. “That’s up to you. I’m the best card player in the service, even _M_ can’t deny that.”

“No jokes Bond and which one?” you can’t resist saying and his face becomes rigid and cold for a moment and you can _definitely_ believe that he’s killed at least two people. 

_“Bitch,”_ he says and your eyebrow lifts and a little breath escapes you.  
A haphazard memory of your husband calling you the same thing as he’d held a belt over you returns and you try and blink it away feverishly. When you manage to you realize how _tightly_ that you are gripping on to the stem of the glass and let go of it automatically, just letting it live in the nest that your arms create around it instead. 

“I”-

“Not you, _M._ That’s _all_ she ever was.” He picks up the glass from in between your startled arms and drains it. 

“Do you call _all_ women that Bond?” you ask him reproachfully. “Or just the ones who _upset_ you?” 

“Maybe we should find out.” He slams the glass back on the bar, grabs at your wrist and begins to take you out of there. Just before you leave the pair of you look back at Moneypenny and Q instinctively.

Moneypenny has stood up and her mouth is a little open, whilst Q, who is now sat beside her appears both exasperated and as if he thinks that this is all _very_ inevitable. You guess that he might be running his hands through his hair soon, more than he already has done.

Bond gives them a bit of a sarcastic salute and then finishes dragging you out of there, his rough and slightly warm hand lowering a little to engulf yours and fitting like a lost puzzle piece.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer. He just takes you through the crowds and back the way you’d come.

The boat that Bill had dropped you off in earlier is by the dock and you look at Bond in surprise. He must have used it to get there and done something to get the security people that had accompanied Bill and you earlier to stay away or to at the very least leave the boat once they’d arrived.

“Fancy a little trip?” Without waiting for your answer he jumps aboard himself, before he helps you.

“I don’t think we’re going back to headquarters,” you venture as Bond steers the boat back down the river.

It’s hard to find a private spot, so he settles for one that has an impressive view instead, that of the Houses of Parliament. You’re not sure if it suits the little that you know of his character. “Thought this would be too much of a _reminder_ of what we do?” you ask him, turning to face him from where you’re standing at the front of the boat.

“Or a good place for rebellion.” With the boat stable in its spot he steps around the controls and faces you. There is a challenging glint in his eye.

“What are we rebelling against?” You approach him in an apparently leisurely fashion. He meets you halfway. Your hand goes to the back of his neck and your fingers nudge against his surprisingly soft hair.

_“Life.”_ You think a good addition to his words would be, _‘And how it always makes fools of us,’_ but then you’re distracted by the fact that Bond’s heated mouth finds yours.

Your arms wrapped around each other-his rubbing at yours encouragingly-you sink lower on the boat, your fatigue managing to shift enough for _this_ and the proper human contact that you have been craving for weeks…

It’s only when his probing warm hand lands on the coldness of your injured hip that you jerk away from him. _“James…”_ his Christian name leaves your lips in one breath. 

His eyes meet yours. He can read the want, the fact that this is not a, _‘No,’_ but a warning and his hand flutters back there. “I’ll be careful,” he assures you.

“Did I hurt you earlier?” you remember how you’d tried to break free from him at the old headquarters. 

“It’s not like I was using those parts at the time,” he murmurs, “Though I am very glad that I get to now.” A smile cracks his face and reminds you of how the storm had broken earlier. 

He rids you of your clothes. You lie back on the floor of the uncomfortable-but heavenly compared to some of the places that you have rested in during the past few weeks-boat and wriggle when it’s necessary to help him with his task. He runs a hand over each bruise and slowly kisses all of them. “Lost and Found should _really_ give people more flattering clothing, especially when they look like _this.”_ You don’t know whether you buck into his hand or laugh. All you know is his smile and his body slowly covering yours, making you feel like you can hardly _breathe_ as the boat rocks in response to his movement. 

You have an experience with him there, as if you _both_ are being healed from pain just as much. You’d thought _you_ were the only one who needed saving… 

*

“There was someone else wasn’t there?” Afterwards, in the middle of your haze, it clicks with you. That James isn’t sad about M alone, but someone else entirely. Someone from a while ago perhaps, but not so long ago that he’s become numb from the pain of it all. 

_“Mm,”_ is all that James says in response and you wonder about that woman and what she was like and what they had _gone_ through together. Right beside you James is thinking about something similar, but about _you._ “I know that he hurt you, but did you ever-?” he begins to ask. 

You look at him and the earlier mood that had been created between the pair of you suddenly evaporates. _“Why?”_ you ask him a little cruelly and back to your defensive self. “So you can call _me_ a bitch as well?” You take a little breath and try and get yourself back under control, recognizing that you don’t seem to be getting on well with men of _any_ kind that day. “No, of course I didn’t. I didn’t enjoy it and I _didn’t_ love him. Why would I have escaped and tried so hard to get back to London otherwise?” 

“Sometimes people do strange things. You might have decided that this was the better option, but it doesn’t mean that your feelings for the man”-

“I think _this_ was the strange thing,” you tell him, “You and me here on this boat.” You wriggle upwards and pull the clothes that you hadn’t already replaced back on. 

James lets out a sigh, but you ignore him and steer the boat to the nearest dock. Once it’s there you get off it without another word, even _though_ you can feel cold yet curious blue eyes staring at the back of your head insistently. 

You will leave London within hours-sneaking into Q’s lab and retrieving your gun, leaving a little note in its place and looking up Mallory to boot, before you do such a thing-and set out on the revenge mission that will bring the man you’ve just left and yourself together again. It will come to pass through a, _‘Top Secret,’_ file being handed over M’s desk just as it always has done…


End file.
